


Joining the Wards

by misha906 (BoopPhysics)



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 03:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17196035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoopPhysics/pseuds/misha906
Summary: Today should be a happy day, after all, you're joining the Wards.





	Joining the Wards

_ A flash of light, a grating growl, and a panicked scream thrum in your ears.  You fight, you kick, you scream, and you punch, but it all seems for naught. You can’t escape, you can’t escape, you can’t escape and you’re about to be hurt to be hurt to be hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt- _

 

Your dream rouses you, and the covers fly off in a flurry as you scream and kick your way out from its strangling embrace.  It takes a few moments for you to realize that you are in bed, that you are safe. Your clarity returns, and you slump back on the mattress, pulling the heavy blanket back over your shoulders.  There’s a knock on the door.

 

“You okay in there?” Dad asks.  He always asks. That’s all he can ask, now; he has no other words to say.

 

“I’m fine,” you lie, struggling to stand, “I’m fine, just dropped something is all.”

 

There is a pause.

 

“Okay, honey, just remember we’ll be leaving in a few hours. There’s breakfast downstairs if you want it,” Dad responds.

 

“I know. I’ll be ready,” you lie again.  Lying has gotten much easier these days. It was a little harder in the beginning when you’d crack, and break down, and cry a little.  But now, the lies seem to slip out of your mouth before you even think of them. You shrug your blanket off, ignoring the stench of your sweat still clinging to it, and grope around your room in search of clothes.  You manage to find some clean underwear at the bottom of your dresser. Then along came a pair of dirty jeans, a sweat-stained tank top, and the same heavy, baggy sweater you’ve been wearing for the past month. You take a look at yourself in the mirror.  It hasn’t changed, still the same tired eyes, the same droop in your cheeks, and the same haggard look you’ve grown accustomed to since…the incident.

 

You raise a comb and strike at your hair with it.  It catches on the dried and split ends, causing strands to crack and fall.  You continue irregardless, finding the motion soothing and familiar. Maybe you could fix some of this mess.

 

\--

 

You’ve visited this place many times when you were a kid; back then, the building was imposing, the dull grey concrete that stood so starkly next to the older brick buildings around it, the overbearing insignia of the PRT seemed to judge your worth as you walked through the doors for your school field trip.  

 

This time, this time you walk in with trepidation instead of excitement.  Not much to be excited about today, at least not for you. Dad walks up to the front desk.

 

“Hi,” he says, “I’m a victim of a crime, I’m here to report that my daughter has been beset upon by a swarm of bees.”  

 

You cringe at the corny and obvious code.  This was stupid, they should have just been given a passcode or a password to give, or maybe have a specific door to enter to avoid being noticed.  This? This was literally begging for someone to pay attention, begging for someone to really piece together what they’re here for, and from then it’d be an easy leap to find out who  _ you  _ were.  You shudder at the thought as a PRT trooper nearby gestures for you and your dad to follow.  

 

The elevator is small, much too small for your liking.  You fidget a little, grabbing at the dirty sleeves of your hoodie with your cracked nails.  You notice that you were biting your lip when the taste of blood hits your tongue, and you stop.  The elevator door opens, and you are led through a series of hallways until you stop in front of a nondescript wooden door.  The trooper unlocks it with an ID, and ushers you in with your dad. The room is spartan, a singular conference table dominates the center, surrounded by office chairs; a whiteboard hangs at one end, while a table with disposable cups, coffee, and water fills the other.  

 

You settle into a chair with your dad as the trooper begins to put a series of forms in front of you, along with a pen to sign.  You scratch out the loopy letters in a daze, not really focused on the forms. Instead, your mind wanders. Today, today you join the Wards.  Today you begin a life as a superhero. You think you should feel excited, but all you can feel is the knot of discomfort in your abdomen, a knot that you can’t dispel, no matter how many styrofoam cups of coffee you filch from the adjacent table.  

 

Eventually, the forms are signed and handed in, the second knock of your day is heard.  The door opens and in walks a familiar woman wearing her signature green fatigues and a bandana over her face.

 

“Hello,” she smiles, shaking your hand.  You take it, suddenly feeling a little self conscious about how dirty your sleeves are.  Why didn’t you look for a cleaner sweater? You were meeting bona fide  _ superheroes _ today, and you didn’t clean up, you idiot.  You drop your arm and look away in shame, but Miss Militia doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“You must be Atalanta.  Welcome to the Brockton Bay PRT,” she smiles.  Ah, they were referring to you by your codename, that’s good.  You really didn’t want other people to know your real name, didn’t want them connecting this burnt out husk to you.

 

And she’s smiling; that’s also good.  You don’t know how you know she smiles, but you do.  Maybe it’s in the way her eyes light up, the way the cracks and creases near her eyes curl upwards and shift.  She gestures to the door, “Would you like to come with me and meet the rest of the Wards now?”

 

You don’t.  If anything you want to go home and crawl back into bed.  Even making the journey out here has seemed to drain a portion of your soul, not to mention the last half hour of paperwork.  But your dad squeezes your hand, and gives you a pleading look, one that’s asking for you to stay out the house a little longer, one asking you to at least  _ try _ .  You relent and nod.

 

“Okay,” you answer, voice scratchy from underuse.  You stop talking in an effort to salvage some of your pride.  There was no need for anyone else to hear your voice. Dad lets go of your hand, and you follow Miss Militia to the still too small elevator.  The ride down was quiet, and you begin fidgeting with your sweater again. Miss Militia asks some questions, you think, and you hope you responded appropriately, you mind still wandering through the scenarios of meeting the city’s teenaged heroes.  Would they like you? Would they hate you? Would they think you were creepy? Would they think you were weak? Pathetic? The questions roil through your mind as the elevator opens up into a chilly concrete corridor, with a dull green door at the end.  It looked imposing, massive, reaching all the way to the top of the wall while a rotating red light was placed at its side. 

 

Miss Militia gestures for you to go ahead.  Your footsteps echo through the hall as you plod forward.  It seems to take an eternity to get to the door, your insides still twisting this way and that as your feet struggle to carry your body forward.  A security terminal presents itself, and you falter. Miss Militia places a hand on your shoulder to steady you, and leans forward to let the device scan her eye.  A distant beep is heard, and the doors whir open. 

 

“After today we’ll have your biometrics in the system, and you’ll be able to do that on your own,” she explains, once again giving you a mild push forward.  You walk in, staring intently at the your feet. A pair of dirty and scratched sneakers stare back. 

 

“Wards,” you hear Miss Militia’s voice call out, “You have a new teammate I want you all to meet.”

 

There is a shuffle of feet and a clanging of doors.  You hear footsteps approach and stop near you. You know you should be feeling excitement at this, but all you feel right now is tired.  You look up, and recognize some of their masks. Clockblocker, Vista, and Kid Win. The other Wards were probably out on patrol. They stood in an awkward semi-circle around you, and once again, you feel underdressed in your ratty hoodie compared to their bright and shiny costumes.  You shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, not knowing what to say. Thankfully, Miss Militia saves you.

 

“This is Atalanta,” she says, “Say hi, everyone.”

 

There is a chorus of greetings, but it quickly peters out into silence.  You hear an analog clock ticking somewhere in the background. 

 

“So, um,” Clockblocker gives a cough.  It sounds muted through his full face mask, “New girl, huh?  What can you do?” 

 

Of course, that’d be the only thing they were interested in.  Not in you, you silly goose, just how hard you would be able to hit someone.  You give Miss Militia a look to ask for permission, and she nods, gesturing to a nearby table.  Well, if  _ she’s _ okay with it... 

 

You approach, tracing a finger over the varnish to make sure it was solid enough, and you line up your fist.  

 

Even now, after several months, it feels disgusting, like something slithering over your arm, smothering it and forcing it to blossom outwards in a misshapen mass.  Tendrils of darkened flesh and slime pour outward from your forearm, covering it in pulsating viscera and carapace. You slam it into the toughened wood, watching it splinter and crack in a deafening boom, it echoes around the circular room, accompanied by a shower of splinters and sawdust.

 

Demonstration complete, you retract the mass and turn back to face the Wards.  They stood frozen, no doubt horrified at what you’d just shown them. This was a stupid idea, why did you come here today?  You should go back home, go back and go to sleep, forget this ever happened, forget about it all and just-

 

“Wow, Aegis is gonna be  _ pissed _ he’s no longer the only Brute on the team,” Kid Win whistles.  Clockblocker approaches the destroyed table and crouches down, examining the debris.

 

“Damn, it’s almost powder,” he exclaims, pinching a bit of sawdust and lifting it to his face.  You shrug, unsure of what to say. Vista suddenly steps in front of you, causing you to backpedal and fall flat on your ass.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!” She cries, reaching for your hand and pulling you up.  She holds on to your hand much more vigorously than you’d like. She takes her visor off and begins to shake your hand.

 

“Hi!  My name’s Missy,” she says proudly, “It’s nice to meet you!”

 

You shake her hand wordlessly as the other Wards unmask and offer their civilian names.  

 

Shit, would you have to do that?

 

Miss Militia leaves to room to call for someone to clean up the pulverized table and you find yourself led to a large couch in the center of the room.  Once seated, a soda is thrust into your hands and an excited chatter begins. You listen, mostly, unsure of how to join in. 

 

“Anyways, I think you’ll like it here,” Missy seems very excited, blabbering on and on about life as a Ward.  You’ve found yourself slowly infected by her endless enthusiasm, a blabbermouth that reminds you a lot of someone else in your civilian life.  

 

The conversation lulls, the subject of it having run out with Missy’s detailing of PR protocols.  You sit in silence for a few moments, unsure if you should react or respond. You feel as though the Wards are looking at you expectantly, waiting for  _ you _ to say something back to  _ them _ .  You take a deep breath.

 

You can do this.  This is normal. This is how normal people interact.  You can do this.

 

“Hi,” your first attempt at a greeting is raspy, your throat both slick with soda yet dry with nervousness.  You hack out a small cough, and try again, “Hi. My name is Emma. Emma Barnes. Nice to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the Cauldron Secret Santa event. The prompt I received was 'Joining the Wards', so I took that and ran with it as far as I could. Well, maybe not that far. I don't run much.


End file.
